


A Cat's Eye View

by sphinxvictorian



Category: I Know Where I'm Going!
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Gen, Scotland, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphinxvictorian/pseuds/sphinxvictorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catriona writes to Lieutenant Anthony Potts, somewhere in the Middle East.  Such wild goings-on in Port Erraig, Pottsy my love!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cat's Eye View

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/gifts).



Dear Potts:

Damn but the old house is quiet. Even with the dogs, I can feel how empty the old place is. There’s a horrible gale that’s blown up, whistling through the windows and the rafters.

Your letters are getting fewer and farther between. I miss getting those sandy missives. You are a rotter for going away, you know, even though I know you had to.

I’ve had a letter from the old Major. He’s got to leave his old digs in Carlisle, so he’s coming up here. He loves Port Erraig and Erraig House, so I’ve told him he can stay with me, if he promises to keep his ruddy birds out of my kitchen. The last time they got in there, the falcon stooped for my last rabbit where it lay on the counter, and there went my supper!

Anyway, it won’t be so lonesome when he comes.

I’ve all but abandoned the ground floor now, and I’m living in the east part of the first floor, in that group of rooms you always said would make a capital flat. Well, Pottsy, you were right, as you sometimes are. Myself and the dogs are nice and cozy up here. Spend less money that way, heat only the few rooms and the coal lasts much longer.

Anyway, must run, I’ve a chicken in the stewpot and old Fergus wants his belly rubbed, the gorgeous old softy.

Take care of yourself, Tony. I absolutely forbid you to take any stupid risks, though I know you won’t listen to me. I adore you and all that sort of rot.

Your Cat

 

```````````````

Well, well, Pottsy dear, such a lot of to-do here abouts!

A young woman arrived this afternoon, wanting to get over to Killoran. Got a lot of backbone, tried to refuse to take no for an answer, but you know what Ruaridh Mhor is like. He refused to take her to Killoran in the fog that had come up.

Torquil – yes, he’s home for 8 days leave – brought her up to the house to stay for the night. She’s not a great beauty, but she’s got a fire to her. I think Torquil is smitten. She is going to Killoran to marry Sir Robert Bellinger, the owner of Consolidated Chemicals, Incorporated. You remember, I told you he’d rented Killoran from Torquil for the duration. Rich as Croesus, so poor Torquil’s not got a chance.

She’s up in the round room, and I heard Torquil tell her to count the beams and her wish will come true. It might, but only if she wishes the right thing. Oh, I know you think that’s all ridiculous Scottish rubbish. But you well remember the time I wished on those same beams, so I’ll be hearing no nonsense from you!

Any road, she’s no cook, didn’t know how to skin a rabbit, and seemed all too worried about her chances of getting across tomorrow.

I’ll keep you posted on further events.

Keep safe, you rogue!

Love or what you will,

Cat

 

`````````````````

Dearest Pottsy,

Well, it’s been some days since the events of my last letter. Things have gotten much more complicated!

After that first night at the house, Joan Webster (that’s her name, forgot to tell you that, sorry) was continually kept from getting across. First, another tremendous gale blew up, and Himself still refused to take her across. So she asked if there was a phone on the island. And as you know, there’s only the radio at the Coast Guard hut in Tobermory. Torquil offered to escort her up there, and promised me he’d get them both rooms at the hotel there, so as not to be a burden on my meager housekeeping. Bless the man, he’s so transparent, he just wanted the chance to get to know her better, away from my nosy presence!

So off they went, and I heard nothing for a day or so. The Major was in a high dudgeon. He’s managed to train a golden eagle, calls him Torquil (ha ha!), but then, as is the Major’s wont, he lost the blighter up on the hills. So he’s up there stamping about and whirling the lures for all he’s worth, poor chap. He was afraid he’d lose him for good, when he found out from Torquil that the bird was being suspected of stealing lambs. But he managed to find him, and by sending him after the real culprit, a dog fox, he made himself and Torquil (the eagle!) the heroes of the day. There’s no containing him now!

So two mornings later, Joan and Torquil (the man!) show up again, this time I can tell something’s up between the two of them. It’s gone beyond a glint in Torquil’s eye now, she’s beginning to feel it too. And rich old Bellinger is starting to look a bit less appetizing. But she’s fighting it like a puppy fights a leash. She’s more determined than ever to get to Killoran and the gale’s lessening, so she’s asking Himself again. And he’s still not having it, besides, he’s got to take himself off to the dentist. (You remember, he can only make the time for it when there is a gale.)

Here’s where things got bad, though, and very dangerous. She waited till he’d left, and then she persuaded young Kenny to take the boat out instead, promising him £20 if he’d take her across. That’s just what he needs to marry young Bridie, so he jumped at it. Torquil was angrier than I’d ever seen him. I could tell he wanted me to do something, to stop this somehow, but if Bridie pleading with her to not endanger her true love’s life couldn’t move her, I knew there was nothing I could say.

The woman is more stubborn than a barnful of mules, and absolutely terrified at the idea that all her plans were going so horribly astray. She was as nervous as could be the whole night last night. Remember how I bucked and pulled when I first fell for you? How could I, a MacLean of Erraig House, fall for a Sassenach? And not even a nice one? You are horrible, Pottsy, you know you are. If Mother and Father were alive, they’d have cringed at the idea. In fact, I’d have been sent to the furthest reaches of the Hebrides to be kept away from you. But I think somehow, that’s the reason I finally fell for you so entirely. The fact that you weren’t expected, you weren’t the normal, you weren’t the man I should fall for.

Well, that was the problem, really, wasn’t it, Tony? You were a man, and I was a woman, not precisely what either of us actually wanted. But we couldn’t have what we really wanted, so we decided that we’d just have to fall for each other, didn’t we? So here we are, or rather there you are, and here am I. I do miss you, you know, and I hope you’re not getting too sunburnt. I imagine you swaggering about like T.E. Lawrence out there, in a dashiki and robes, teeth glinting like Rudolf Valentino!

Seriously though I do hope you’re being careful, Pottsy. Or as careful as you can be. Keep your head down and come back to me, do you hear?

Well, anyway, so Joan Webster is in a similar predicament. I mean, you remember Torquil, you told me how maddeningly fascinating he can be. Well, he’s well and truly spun his lairdly spell over her, taken her to a dance at Ardcruich House and sung the Nut Brown Maiden to her, and well, that’s her gone.

Anyway, so she’s running so hard that she ends up putting both Kenny and Torquil in harm’s way. Nearly getting them all killed when a squall came through and nearly sucked them into Corrievreckan. But by the grace of the Almighty, they pulled through and came home. Poor Kenny fainted before Himself could strike him. Mortified he was.

So, having put Joan to bed with soup and a hot water bottle, and been a shoulder to cry on, we’ll see what happens tomorrow. Will she go to Killoran or won’t she?

Now you shall just have to be patient until my next letter to hear the end! Aren’t I a horror? But you do love me anyway, I hope.

I love you.

Your Cat

 

`````````````````````

Ah, dear, dear Pottsy!

Well, now, the end of the story you will glean when I tell you that my gran’s wedding dress was finally put to good use. It was whisked off to Tobermory, fitted to the lithesome form of Miss Joan Webster, as was, and now is carefully packed away in lavender sachets and stored in a cupboard somewhere in MacNeil House on Killoran. Mrs. Torquil MacNeil, lady of Killoran was installed there, upon the disgruntled exit of her ex-fiancé, Sir Robert. Torquil himself has had to go back on duty, so Joan is staying here with me, till he gets back. (Stop it, I know I said her form was lithesome, but if you can behave with all those lovely boys, so can I!)

It's nice to have a woman about the house, feminine nonsense has not been about much. Joan has promised to help Bridie plan her wedding, and we’ve all settled down to wait until our men come marching home. Not that we need any of you for anything practical, but can’t live with you, can’t live without you, to coin a phrase.

Love to you, you old thing,

Cat

 


End file.
